


Spear & Shield

by Elliott_Fletcher



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Awkward Boners, Fluff, M/M, Skinny Dipping, Sparring, Swimming, Western Air Temple, Zuko (Avatar)-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:46:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26569006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elliott_Fletcher/pseuds/Elliott_Fletcher
Summary: Sokka sweeps Zuko off his feet with a blow to the ankles. He whacks his tailbone on the ground, spluttering. Before he can compose himself, Sokka rolls on top of him and pins him to the mud.“The fight’s never over.” Sokka says. It’s his first win.
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 229





	Spear & Shield

Zuko unties his satchel and out falls his bounty from the road. Foods from wealthy travelers are wrapped individually in linen. Tins of delicacies and salted fishes spread before them. Katara inspects each item thoroughly. 

“What if it’s poisoned?” She suggests. 

Zuko barks, “It’s not poisoned!” He says it again, quieter. “I stole it on my journey.”

“Stolen’s not any better,” she says. 

“If you’re  gonna stay and train Aang, you can’t steal from others anymore. It’ll give us a bad reputation, and trust me,” Sokka chuckles, “We don’t need any help with that.”

“Alright,” Zuko concedes. He wraps up the cloth and takes the satchel into his arms. His stomach turns with hunger. He’ll sacrifice the meal if it means he can stay. He makes to throw it away, but Sokka stops him.

“Okay, I know it’s not the most moral decision, but I am starving, and we really shouldn’t let this go to waste.” 

Even  Katara agrees, but a doubtful frown still twists her face. “And what if it’s poisoned?”

Zuko feels an anger that bubbles up his throat. Sokka fixes him a stare. It makes Zuko wonder if he can see through his skin. 

“Guess I’ll find out.” He takes a bite.

* * *

“. . . Pent up?” Sokka says, and Zuko knows it’s directed at him, but he can’t focus. He only catches the last words.  _ Pent up? _

“That’s one way to put it,” he says gruffly. Even talking is exhausting when his reserve of energy has a huge dam in the middle. He recalls his Uncle’s saying, “Chi is a bender’s food – it goes in the belly!” Which explains why he’s been so . . . blocked up as of late.

“I just think it might be good for you. Get the blood flowing, you know?” Sokka exclaims, “Get your heart racing!”

Zuko is definitely missing something. “What are you suggesting?” 

Sokka groans, “Come on, weren’t you listening at all? I did a cool speech and everything. What’s a guy  gotta do to be heard around here?”

Zuko would say ‘yell,’ but Sokka already does plenty of that.

“Let’s fight,” Sokka says. “Sword to sword, Man to Man.” Zuko doesn’t like man to man. Every man to man he’s had  has been with his father. He’s much better with Man-to-Frog, or Man-to-Tree. Sokka leans in, his voice hushed. “Okay, here’s the truth, I need this more than you. Do you have any idea how stagnant I feel?” His mouth sprints, “Everyone around me is mastering their arts, inventing new bending disciplines, and where does that leave me, huh? I can only do so much by myself.”

Zuko doesn’t know what to say.  _ What would uncle say _ ? “Deep breaths,” He says, mimicking  Iroh’s inflection. If Sokka notices, he doesn’t say anything.  _ Sword to sword _ . . . it can’t hurt, and his swords would appreciate slicing something other than a tree.

Sokka takes them to  Katara’s training pool – a manmade dent in the land they’ve funneled water into. He wets his hands before gripping the leather wrappings on his blades. He unsheathes them gracefully, and they arc in unison. Zuko bends over to clean the sap off his blades. No matter how many times he wipes them they still end up sticky. Sokka unsheathes his weapon with a dull  _ shing _ . He tests the weight in his hands. It glides smooth and full in a horizontal arc. Zuko toes his sandals off and steps into the water. It kisses his ankles. Sokka does the same.

“This won’t be a fair fight.” he says, “I can tie my wrists together if you’d like.” It’s the honorable solution.

“Prince Flame-turd thinks he can beat me with his hands tied!” Sokka boasts to an imaginary audience. “If you tie yours, I tie mine.”

“I don’t think that has the effect you think it does.” 

“Then tell me why you think you’re better than me.”

“Okay, one, I’ve been trained as a prince. I’ve been tutored every day in  swordsmanship . Your hands haven’t bled like mine.”

Sokka _ tsks _ , “Well I’ll let you in on a little secret – I’m a prince of the water tribe in my own right. You heard it right here.”

“I know for a fact the water tribe wasn’t established as a monarchy.”

“You know, for a fire native, you sure know how to  _ rain on my parade _ .” Sokka spits.  _ Disgusting _ .

Zuko’s in the mood for a fight. He tastes metal in his mouth. 

“So, it’s true about the water tribe then, they really do run their mouth like a river.”

“How about you stop yapping and put those blades to use.” Sokka scoffs, “blades, plural. You need two weapons to do what I can with one.”

Zuko growls, “I wasn’t going to fight you, but someone has to shut that mouth up.”

Sokka smiles, like that was the point. “Good.”

They circle each other, their feet splashing the water up. It’s murky with sediment. When Sokka lunges forward, it turns grey beneath his step. Zuko dodges easily. His weight  sponges mud  between his toes

He waits patiently for Sokka to make his move. If he can swipe him when he’s imbalanced, he’ll be able to knock him down. He just has to be careful not to catch his skin in the process. Amputating the Avatar’s friend won’t help his cause - as much as he deserves it.

They pace the water’s edge, and Sokka is surprisingly patient. Zuko’s foot slides in the mud, and Sokka takes the chance to attack. His sword an extension of his arm, Sokka hits Zuko’s ribs with the flat of the blade. Catching his footing, Zuko traps Sokka’s hilt between his swords; if Sokka pulls away, he’ll lose a finger. Zuko hopes he’s not stupid enough to pull away.

“I’m impressed,” Sokka says through clenched teeth. He shoves with the brunt of his weight. Zuko’s startled by the strength behind it. He almost budges.

“It’s not too late for me to tie my hands,” Zuko taunts.

“No,” Sokka says. He loosens his grip in their stalemate. “But I’ll take a rematch.”

Zuko doesn’t see the point. “Fine.”

The second match goes much like the first. They take turns dodging each other’s advances until one of them slips up. Sokka lunges for Zuko’s torso, his blade catching exactly where the hole in his  armor would be. This time, when Zuko captures his hilt, Sokka swivels his grip and dismantles the hold. 

_ Quick reflexes _ , Zuko thinks. 

They parry back and forth for hours. Each match Zuko uses a different technique to win. The next match, Sokka’s figured out how to defend against it. He recalls his uncle’s knowledge about the other nations, and it makes sense. Water changes and adapts to its surroundings. And when Sokka adapts, the fight gets interesting.

Match number thirty-four: He knocks Sokka to the ground, and water splashes up to his eyes. He wipes his face with his sleeve. Sokka sweeps him off his feet with a blow to the ankles. He whacks his tailbone on the ground, spluttering. Before he can compose himself, Sokka rolls on top of him and pins him to the mud.

“The fight’s never over.” Sokka says. It’s his first win.

* * *

“Like a lobster!”  Katara yells. “Look at yourself! Look at him, Aang!”

“Who boiled you?” Aang snickers. 

Sokka looks at his arms. They’re splotchy and red – Momo's  _ tongue _ red.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sokka says. Katara slaps his arm, and it leaves a  pale, yellow hand print. “Ow!” Sokka yells, over and over again.

Zuko tests his own arm. He presses two fingers into his skin, and they imprint jarring white marks.

“This is the last time I’m healing you, I swear,”  Katara drags Sokka by the wrist to her training pool. Only when she sees the state of it, she screams. “What have you done?” She scoops the mud into her hands. “I’m  gonna kill you. Come here.”

She doesn’t kill him. She does, however, coat him in mud, using the water content to heal his burns. It’s within her abilities to clean him off after, and she makes sure Sokka knows that before leaving him to his mess. 

“You,” She addresses Zuko, “Can die in that hole.”

“Come on, now,  Katara ,” Sokka tries. She’s already stormed off, snapping tree’s limbs in her wake.

Zuko bends over the pool and scoops some of the mud into his hands. It’s cooling, but it dries fast in the heat and leaves him feeling ickier than he started. Sokka scrapes the grime off his skin with the wide fronds of a nearby bush. He swipes most of the mud off, though it leaves streaks that colour him a whole shade darker.

“If you leave that, I can guarantee you won’t be moving tomorrow.” 

“Is that a threat?”

“No, hotshot, it’s a warning. We better find you some aloe.”

They return to camp to grab supplies. Sokka convinces Katara to fill canisters of water, instructing Zuko to grab his machete. Zuko unzips his tent and crawls in. The sleeping bag swishes under his knees. It’s cool in here, away from the sun, and it smells of something Zuko can’t place. Sweat, his mind  supplies , but that isn’t right. He grabs the machete and leaves. When he sticks his head out of the tent, Katara is waiting for him.

“And what do you think you’re doing?”

“He asked me to grab this -” Zuko says quickly, but it does nothing to placate her. Zuko’s not sure anything will.

He crawls out fast and meets Sokka at the edge of camp. They walk far and long, and get nowhere. Probably because Sokka crouches to inspect every low-lying plant.

“Can you tell me what we’re looking for?” Zuko prompts, impatiently. It’s not the first time he’s asked; Sokka’s focused so intensely he just hasn’t noticed.

“Green tentacles,” he says after so long Zuko doesn’t remember what he’s asked. His skin is crisping up, and when he rubs his shoulders beneath his robe, it leaves him with an ache. 

“Green tentacles it is,” Zuko sighs. 

Sokka groans with every kneel, breaks a leaf off of every plant. He frowns and discards each clipping over his shoulder, and Zuko watches it fall beneath his sandal. They move on. They find what they’re looking for in a sunlit patch. It’s surrounded by tropical looking plants, like the ones they’d seen on  Kyoshi Island. He’s surprised it grows here too.

“Aha!” Sokka claims. He sits beside the plant. “Beautiful aloe,” He coos. “Beautiful, beautiful,  _ elusive _ aloe.”

Zuko takes a seat on the other side of the plant. Its tendrils are long and wide as their hands. He can only see one eye of Sokka’s, but he thinks it’s crying tears of joy.

“So . . .” Zuko begins, “What do we do with it?” He imagines chewing on the spiky end attached to the plant.

Sokka hands Zuko his machete. He holds the grip tight.  _ We cut it and eat it _ , he thinks. “Slice a tentacle off at the base,” Sokka instructs as he grabs a plate-like frond of the plant he’s using as a seat. He holds the leaf in his hands like a poor-man's bowl. Zuko grips a tentacle and slices it at the base. The blade cuts through it like butter, and a green jelly oozes out of the wound. 

“Good! Now peel it from the root,” Sokka says. “Over the leaf or we’ll lose all the good stuff.” Zuko sticks his thumb in the root and pulls the tendril apart. Some spills onto the earth, but they both adjust so the rest slides gently onto the leaf.

_ Now we drink it _ , Zuko thinks. “Here, hold this,” Sokka places the leaf delicately into Zuko’s cupped hands. It’s startlingly heavy. Sokka pours some of their water into the middle and uses a twig to mix it into an even consistency.

“Ta-Da!” Sokka smiles, “Just make sure Momo doesn’t lick you after this, or  Aang will be devastated. Shirt,” He nods to Zuko. _ Oh, it’s a salve _ . They don’t have enough hands, so Sokka makes a ring of rocks to lift the edges of the leaf. Zuko disrobes, revealing unsightly red skin. 

He dips two fingers in the salve and takes them to his forearm. It’s cold, and a bit tingly, though that may be the skin damage. He rubs it in with his palm, large sweeping strokes over his arm. When the left is covered, he starts the right. He reaches over his shoulder to get his back, but a hand between his  shoulder blades stops him. 

His chest flushes,  “What do you -” 

“Let me,” Sokka says, and it doesn’t sound like pity, so Zuko accepts.

He closes his eyes. The cool spreads over his back, inch my inch. Sokka’s hands are rough, moving in small circles. It feels like he’s melting the salve into the very composition of his skin. He unclenches his fists from the choking grass at his knees. Zuko spreads the salve over his chest and stomach. He’s not as thorough as Sokka is with the medicine, but he’s never liked touching himself. 

“Turn around,” Sokka says. 

“I already did it.” He turns around anyways.

“Your face?” Sokka scoops a generous helping onto his fingers and plops it into his palm. Zuko watches his eyes, but Sokka’s looking everywhere else. He takes a little at a time, smooths it over the planes of his face. He avoids the dimpled skin underneath his eye, drawing a clear circumference around the scar.

“You can touch it,” Zuko says, low.

And when Sokka does, his fingers feel like respect.

* * *

They’re gathered around the campfire, backs to the cliffside. It’s comforting and constant, the rock-face jagged in all the right places. It’s unlike any cliff in the Fire Nation, with foot holds carved and re-carved over the years for climbers. It’s unlike any rockface in the earth kingdom, marred with bending marks, a trophy to their strength. ( _ You’ll move mountains _ , they said, and they did). This is an Air Temple cliff: untouched, a natural beauty. Why scale the mountain when you can fly to the top with such ease? 

It’s warm against Zuko’s back, the fire’s heat reaching deep into the rock and pulling from it the comfort of the sun. A breeze cuts through, and with a quick wave of his hand, the fire grows to compensate. It licks up to their eyes, alive. It’s a quiet night, the promise of war buried in everyone’s blood. They leave one by one to sleep. Those left know there won’t be much rest about them.

Zuko stays with the fire. He feels most . . . permitted, when he’s being useful. He stares into the fire and it stares back. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, or perhaps his subconscious bending the coals, but he sees in the fire what some people see in clouds. He sees a sword, glimmering, and an emblem, and then the coals twist, and he sees the dark eyes of his father, and in them, disgust. He leans in, blinking but the mirage doesn’t break;  Ozai’s frown deepens. Only when a  clamouring comes up the trail is he startled from his trance.

“Think this’ll be enough for the night?” Sokka announces loudly, both to confirm that it’s only him and also because he says everything loudly. His arms are full of sticks, their splintered edges clutched into his padded elbows. Zuko wonders if he rewraps the leather every morning. _ An impractical choice of  _ _ armour _ , Zuko thinks.

“Yeah,” Zuko says, because he’s cautious to say no to the group that barely tolerates his presence as it is. Even if the wood doesn’t last, Zuko will be the last awake to know. Sokka rests the sticks against the cliff face, though they’re already dry. He bristles and turns to catch Zuko’s stare.

“It’s a habit,” Sokka says, defensively.

“I didn’t ask.”

Sokka sits cross-legged opposite him, and Zuko waves the fire down. They squint at each other over the flames.

“It’s just nice to have a bit of home.” 

When he thinks about it, the distrust surrounding him is just like home. “Yeah, sounds nice,” he replies, not because it’s the truth but because he feels obliged to it. Sokka raises his eyebrows. Zuko’s stomach twists. He’s never been so transparent before. It leaves a bitterness on his tongue.

Sokka barrels on, “Come on, you do it too! The whole wake up with the sun thing? I mean, what’s with that? Has to be some weird Fire Nation thing.”

_ Ritual _ . “I guess.”

“And the way you eat, like you’re being graded on it?”

_ Because I  _ have _ been _ . “Uh-”

“And the sleeping without a blanket thing? Aren’t you cold? I have like five layers, all the time.”

“Hey!” Zuko yells. There’s a feeling in his stomach, and he doesn’t like it. He feels . . . seen. “Quit watching me while I sleep – or is that a water tribe thing,  too?” 

Sokka slides away from the fire, shadow pulling at his face. “It’s a trauma thing.”

“Drama?” Zuko scoffs. “Pretty dramatic alright.” He recalls his drenched robes from Katara’s earlier ‘accident.’

Sokka enunciates, “Trauma. With a capital T?”

“Oh,” Zuko says. He’s got plenty of that.

Sokka coughs, breaks the thick of the air. He offers the only thing he can think of. “You up for a run?” _Run?_ _I’ve_ been _running_. It’s all he’s done since he was banished. “Come on, just a friendly race?”

Hands on his knees, he stands. One delicate motion, and the campfire is smoke. “Okay, but you’re  gonna lose.”

They run up the footpaths and duck through trees, the only light the moon and her stars and the flickering in Zuko’s palm. It’s not about the race or the winning, it’s about the wind and the sweat at the back of their necks. Zuko loses a sandal partway, but he doesn’t look back. He’ll find it tomorrow when dawn breaks. He won’t be sleeping anyway.

“Woah,” Sokka slows, and like they’re tethered, Zuko patters to a stop, too. He peers over a branch, brow furrowed. His breath is tight like a fist when he sees it.

The moon is the highest it’s been all evening, almost full, and reflected wholly in the middle of a spring: a glowing white pit in the water. He wonders what it would be like to tread water over the moon. He sheds his remaining sandal and places it delicately atop a tree trunk. A splash coats his calve in droplets. 

Sokka grunts, “It’s uh, shallower than I thought.” He paddles to the center, distorting the perfection. When he looks at Zuko, his smile is a lighthouse beam, and the moon his spotlight.

Zuko looks to his feet and sees Sokka’s discarded clothes. He counts the layers quickly, unsure of how far to undress. He settles for his linens, folding each garment to place upon his lone sandal. The summer wind eases him into the spring. The water is cold to the stomach but easy on the hands.

He floats on his back, feeling his muscles shift after such a mindless run. The water carries him light, lighter than he’s felt in a while. A splash to the face shakes him out of his meditation. “Hey!” Droplets frame his nose, running down to his chin. He wipes his eyes.

“What? I was talking to you.” Sokka says, and when Zuko crests a wave under his own palm, Sokka ducks skillfully under the surface. When he peaks his head up, he’s closer than before. His wolf-tail comes loose, the tie floating in the water between them. Zuko slips it on his wrist, unnoticed. The crickets and cicadas witness their standoff. All hands are poised for attack. The click and chirp - call and answer - is the only sound save for the chattering of Sokka’s teeth.

It’s a summer breeze, but it raises gooseflesh upon his neck, and when Sokka stands and breaks the air, his chest is covered in the bumps. “Never mind.”

Zuko holds a flame under water, bubbles rising up and gulping at the air, but Sokka’s already out. He follows, crawling along the underbelly of the spring, enjoying the last kiss of its manmade warmth. He makes to stand when Sokka offers him a hand. Zuko takes it. They flinch. The sheer difference in temperature startles them. He grips harder and pulls himself out of the pool. Sokka doesn’t let go.

Sokka’s hand is rough and dark; callous over callous over callous. When Zuko pulls his pants over his damp linens, he feels his own callouses on his thighs. They’re the same.

* * *

The next day brings brutal heat and an aching sun. They train until their exhaustion turns heavy, and when Sokka mentions a swim to beat the heat, no one objects. He runs his hand through his loose hair, shakes it out of his eyes.  Katara says, “Really? You lost another one?” and gives him one from her own braid.

Zuko leads them through the footpaths, winding. He leaves lopsided footprints in the earth, one sandal on. He feels daggers between his  shoulder blades , a hot prickle. When he throws a look over his shoulder,  Katara pointedly looks away. Sokka flashes him a grin. When he comes across his sandal in the dirt, he slips it on.

In the daylight, the spring doesn’t look so magical. It’s small, and pitifully shallow. He wonders why it felt so big when it was just the two of them. They splash in one at a time, kicking sediment into the clear.

Zuko sits in the shade. His outer robes are off, but he doesn’t feel like stripping any further, and he especially doesn’t feel like walking back in wet clothes. When Sokka jumps in the water, he’s also more clothed than they were last night. 

“Come on, Flameo Hotman, soak up the sun!” the Aang says.

Zuko rolls up one pantleg and stretches into a patch of sun. “I’ve soaked.”

He watches the canopy of trees sway above their heads. The light flickers through, patchy in the water. 

“We need to train,” Zuko says. “It’s useless just sitting here.”

“Then get off your butt and cool down,” says  Toph .

Katara pipes in, “Yeah, why do you have to be such a hothead?”

Zuko stands, and they cheer, but to their disappointment, he starts down the path. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets. He pulls out the thin leather band, winds it around his finger as he walks. The boisterous laughter quiets, and he leaves it behind. A woodpecker knocks on a tree beside him.

_ Pat, pat, pat _ , race feet behind him. “Hey, wait up!”

He shoves the hair tie into his robe. He doesn’t stop, but his stride slows. Sokka claps him on the shoulder, “I was feeling pretty waterlogged myself.”

He shakes his head, and water droplets spray in an arc. They crunch twigs beneath their feet. Sokka takes the lead, his stride wide and leisurely. Zuko finds he doesn’t mind. They walk back to their camp and stand in the mound of grass they’ve sacrificed for a training ground. It’s patchy and mottled, browned and charred save for the places they posture.

“You wanted to train, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” Zuko looks around. Sokka practically glistens with water, his skin tanned dark, everything about him water tribe. A bird caws in a tree nearby. 

Sokka looks between Zuko and himself. He laughs from his gut. “No, not  firebending , no – I mean look at me,” He says, and Zuko already is. “No, I’m pretty sure if I tried to  firebend , I’d just shit my pants.”

Zuko breathes out, fast, through his nose. It’s like his old exercise to practice breathing fire, except it’s something else entirely. (It’s laughter.)

“I could teach you the stances,” Zuko offers.

Sokka’s still laughing at himself. “Sure, I’ll do your super-secret fire yoga,” He smiles even wider.

Super-secret fire yoga is surprisingly similar to regular yoga. They sit in Lotus position and practice fire breath – Zuko's blowing smoke, Sokka’s exaggerated sighs.

“You’re breathing wrong,” Zuko points out, cracking one eye open.

Sokka stares openly at him. “Is there a prize for that?” 

Zuko huffs, and real flames come out. “Just shut your eyes,” he grumbles.

Zuko stands, and Sokka follows. They continue like this, one after the other. They lunge, and Sokka mimics his arm motions as best as he can.

“How do you feel? Awakened?” Zuko prompts. They’re in mirrored warrior stances.

“Limber,” says Sokka.

“I’m  gonna start bending in the stances.” Zuko says. “You don’t have to  -”

“No,” Sokka says, “I’m enjoying this.” There’s sweat on his brow, between his shoulder blades, but there’s a grin on his face. Zuko believes him.

When the group joins them, Aang is ecstatic. He jumps into the scarred practice ring. Sokka looks between the two masterful  firebenders – both a little too close for comfort. “My gut is telling me that if I stand here any longer, I’m gonna lose an eyebrow.”

Zuko watches him over his fingertips. Sokka converses with  Katara in a hushed voice.  Katara raises hers loud, “I just don’t see why you have to get all buddy-buddy with him!”

“I know you two have history,” Sokka says. Each word he speaks is a soothing damper on her temper. “You don’t have to love him.”

“You don’t have to either,” She bites.

“Hey now,” He says. Zuko inhales shakily, exhales deep into his stance. He can’t focus. “I’ve never had a guy my age around.  So what if he’s fire nation, so what if he hunted us for months, uh,” Sokka pauses. Zuko feels his gaze on him. He feels too exposed like this. Sokka whispers, “I think we’re bros.”

“How can you forgive him so fast?”

Zuko wonders this himself, late at night. The wondering takes place of the tea-drinking. It’s as often as ritual, and breaks him into a sweat on heavy nights. How can Sokka – and the Avatar – forgive him when he can’t do that much himself?

“I, uh,”  Aang interrupts. “Think we need to train somewhere with less . . . distractions.” Too little, too late, Zuko thinks. His mind is already in turmoil. A friendly sibling screaming match ensues, and it feels just like home.

“Yeah, you have a place in mind?”

Aang leads him to a terraced platform. It’s all flat-rock and weeds and pretty white buds. Best of all, it’s quiet.

“I always feel bad when we scorch the grass,”  Aang says. “And it’ll be harder on our feet but - “

“It’s perfect,” Zuko interrupts. He slides his sandals off and feels the sun-warmed stone beneath his feet. “Let’s get to work.”

* * *

The sun is rising red when Zuko wakes. He rolls out of his tent and meets face to face with Sokka. His eyes are bleary, and there’s a crease on his cheek. He follows Zuko to the spring, shuffling his feet the whole way.

Zuko rolls up the hem of his pants in careful folds. Sokka scrunches his up to the knee. They wade into the shallows, and the sand caresses between Zuko’s toes. He wrinkles his nose. 

He goes through the stances, breathing smoke. The water sloshes around his ankles. He doesn’t look back, but from the wakes in the water, he can tell Sokka’s repeating his motions. Zuko steps on a sharp rock, and it embeds into the callous of his heel. When he balances on the opposite leg and grabs hold of his ankle to pull the stone out, Sokka mimics the action. Zuko smiles to himself at the resulting  _ splash _ .

Sokka doesn’t pick himself up. For the rest of the routine, Zuko feels his eyes on him. When he’s finished, he sits at the water’s edge. He digs his fingers in the sand.  The grains swallow him up.

“I’m sorry about my sister,” Sokka says after a while. He rubs at his skin beneath the water like he’s bathing. It feels too private a thing to watch, so he looks away. “She’s being a maniac.”

A laugh breaks through his throat before he can stifle it. “She’s nothing compared to Azula.”

“Trust me, she has her moments.” Zuko can hear his grin.

“Has she told you your father wants you home and that he loves you again only for it to be a trap and she’s taking you prisoner?” He jokes. There’s too long a pause before Sokka laughs. Zuko thinks it was the wrong thing to say.

Sokka shakes his head. “No, has your sister ever frozen your underwear when you were trying to bathe?”

_ This is okay then _ . Zuko adds sisters to the narrow list of conversation topics that won’t cause a fight. “No, has your sister ever burned the crotch out of all your pants?”

They go on and on and on until  Katara overhears them. She stomps up to them like a tornado, and she holds Sokka head under the water until he cries mercy.

They don’t swim again until the full moon. It hangs low in the sky over their heads as they walk to the spring. The leaves crunch beneath their sandals. Zuko strips to his linens. Sokka strips to his loin cloth, and Zuko has to stop himself from gaping. He steps into the water quickly. The chill gives his mind something else to focus on.

It’s silent except for the swish of the water and the cicadas. Sokka floats on his back, staring up at the sky. The moonlight washes his skin out. It looks like he’s glowing. Zuko turns around.

“My first kiss turned into the moon,” Sokka says. 

Zuko hums, “Like a frog into a prince situation?”

“What? No,” Sokka stands in the water. “Kissing her didn’t  _ turn _ her into the moon. I kissed her, and then later and completely unrelated, she became the moon.”

Zuko laughs through his nose. “My girlfriend hates me,” he says honestly.

“Because you left the fire nation?” Sokka prompts.

“Yeah, that too, but no. She’s always hated me. I think that’s why she dated me in the first place.” 

“The fire nation's wack, man,” Sokka says sagely. Zuko nods along.

Sokka resumes his floating. Zuko tries it, but he doesn’t like the way the water invades his ears. Instead, he sits and treads the water with his arms.

“There’s this girl, Suki - “

“ Kyoshi girl,” Zuko remembers.

“Yeah, first thing she did was put me in a dress.” Zuko tries to imagine it but he can’t get past Sokka’s face. “And you know what? No one tells you how freeing it is!”

“My sister put me in a dress once,” Zuko lies. It was more than once. “And uh, I have to agree.”

“Right?” Sokka exclaims.

Sokka gets out first. Zuko’s eyes follow the white tail of his loincloth. His head starts to feel thick, so he dunks it. When he emerges, Sokka’s hand is already outstretched to him. He takes it. Sokka looks him in the eye, but Zuko’s looking down, down, down.

* * *

It’s not the rustling that wakes him, though that’s what stirs him from his tent. The zip jams halfway up, so he has to crawl out. Sokka’s watching him from in front of his own tent. His skin feels near boiling.

“Can’t sleep?” Sokka whispers. His voice is always brash and heard, but this is different.

Zuko nods, though he doubts Sokka can see it. Nothing is the crisp detail it would be in the day, figures fuzzy with dark. Sokka sleeps in his linens, and it draws the gaze, the juxtaposition of his white shorts and tan skin. “You?” Zuko says, low. He’s never been very good at whispering.

“Nightmare,” Sokka says grimly. Even if that had been the reason for Zuko’s waking, he’s not sure he would have said it. Sokka nods to the path, and Zuko patters after him without a word. The earth feels different like this; barefoot and cool from a night’s rest. During the day, the sun pitches high and the ground aches from her rays. The moon is high and the land is relaxed and loose. Each step feels like a sigh beneath his feet. If Zuko steps on a pebble, he doesn’t mind.

The spring is glistening, and marvelous, and breathtaking, and Zuko doesn’t look at it twice. He’s too busy staring at the linens Sokka has shucked to his ankles. Sokka is tanned from his shoulders to his toes. Zuko gets an eyeful of his flat ass when he strips his loincloth. He swallows his heart and turns around to hide his choking. He doesn’t turn back until he hears the swish of the water.

“Are you coming in or what?” Sokka says, and it sounds like a taunt to his ears. He knows it’s not, but if he tells himself it is, maybe he’ll have the courage to follow through.

_ Follow through: _ his Achilles heel according to his uncle. He closes his eyes tight. It doesn’t help – he knows Sokka is watching him. He faces the trees and unlaces his trousers. They fall to his ankles. He pushes his linens there too.

He takes small steps backwards into the water. He wants to cover up, his fingers itching to hide himself. It’s dark – if he can’t see his own feet in the water, Sokka probably can’t see him.  _ Except he’s got two working eyes, dumbass.  _ he remembers. When the water brushes at his knee caps, he crouches. Goosebumps rise on his thighs, creeping up. When Sokka puts his hand to his shoulder, they bloom there too.

“See, was that so hard?” He’s never felt more naked.

“It’s cold,” he lies.

“You can fix that,” he says. They’re far away from the group, but neither of them dares to speak out. Zuko would combust if they came upon them, naked in the spring. They must look like an oil painting, like one he’d find on Ember Island. This kind of thing is normal there, not that this is  _ that kind of thing _ .

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Zuko bluffs. Sokka chatters his teeth, and he knows he’s being teased. He gives in anyways. “Give me your hands.”

Zuko places Sokka’s hands over his and cups them to his mouth. He breathes hot air deep into his skin until his palms are red. 

“Woah,” Says Sokka. When Zuko looks up, he’s right there, eyes wide.  _ As blue as - _ Zuko looks down. They pull apart, and Zuko warms the water between them. Sokka presses his hands to his own chest, and his entire body caves into the warmth. He flushes with it. Zuko watches with rapt attention.

“I haven’t felt warmth like this in a long time,” Sokka says distractedly. He’s still pressing his hands to his prickling skin: his arms, his stomach, his cheeks.

Zuko says, “Here,” Before he can think it through. He opens his arms. It takes focus to heat his skin without burning, and his mind is turbulent with thoughts of . . . thoughts. It’s not a logical idea. But Sokka is smiling and swimming close, close enough to touch. Sokka wraps his arms around him in a hug. It’s gentle, yet knocks all the air from Zuko’s lungs. He hasn’t been hugged since his Uncle . . . 

He imagines the chi in his stomach is the kettle, and he pours it into the cups of his limbs. Sokka sighs into the warmth. He’s steps closer. Their hips meet, and the kettle explodes. 

Zuko scrambles out of the spring. He can’t turn around, he can’t turn around, he can’t turn around. He pulls his trousers on and knots them too tight. He carries his linens in his fist, holds them in front of him like a shield, just one extra barrier between Sokka and his unfortunate erection. He squeezes his eyes shut, and sees in the red the handprint he knows he’s branded onto Sokka’s skin, his own carelessness manifested. He says, “You need to go see Katara. Right now.”

And he leaves.

* * *

“Please tell me there’s more to eat than this,” Sokka groans. He checks their stores: empty. Momo holds the last of their berries in his paw. Sokka gives chase, but in the  end, he only eats dirt.

“I’ve been telling you for days we’re running low, but no, you never listen to me,”  Katara huffs. She picks at the nuts in her hand, and when she eats all the ones that appetize her, she tosses them at his head.

“Okay, okay,” Sokka says, “I’ll lay some traps tonight.”

“I’ll come with you,” Zuko says. No one argues, though  Katara flashes him a look that he can’t decipher. Usually her expressions are clear: disdain, hatred, loathing. But now, she looks at him like he’s a puzzle to be solved. 

They leave after their second pitiful meal of the day. The sun bites at their necks, and they tie their shirts to their heads to protect them. Zuko’s eyes fall upon two dark hand prints at the breadth of Sokka’s back. He didn’t go to  Katara , the idiot. He’s sure if Sokka  _ had _ went,  Katara would have killed Zuko. He shakes his head. 

Sokka wields his machete, and Zuko holds the pack. When they find animal tracks, they tie trip-traps in the area. Sokka makes the knots, and Zuko lays them.

“What a team,” Sokka grins. They climb through the trails, straying from the paths to the undisturbed areas. The foliage comes to their knees and tickles them where they’ve rolled their pants up. The ground is uneven and water warped. Zuko loses his footing.  _ Focus _ , he thinks, but he  _ is _ focusing - just on the sweat between Sokka’s shoulder blades, and the dark hairs on his calves. 

The last trap they set takes the longest. Sokka explains the process as they go, and Zuko grunts along. The sky turns purple before they’re finished, like a petal above their heads. When the sun falls under the horizon, it leaves a chill in the air they can’t shake.

Zuko unrolls the futon and tucks in under a canopy tree. It’s colder in the shade, here, but there’s a safety at the base of a tree that you can’t find in a clearing. 

“I’ll sleep with one eye open,” Sokka says, “Since I’m the one with the wire.”

Zuko wants to argue – he's not going to be sleeping anyway, so he should be the one in charge of the trap – but when he opens his mouth, Sokka flashes him a look. It’s something territorial, like a dog over his food. Zuko tucks himself under the sheet. It smells of his sweat from hotter nights. He covers his nose with his elbow.

He doesn’t sleep. He can feel Sokka shivering at his knees. _ I could give him my blanket _ , Zuko thinks,  _ but it really stinks _ . 

“Here,” he says quietly. Sokka doesn’t look away from the trap. Zuko threads his legs into Sokka’s lap. He focuses to bring all his chi into his legs, and as they warm, Sokka cradles them gratefully. He sighs into the heat, his fingers pressing like little thimbles into his shins. Even without his chi, Zuko’s skin is abnormally hot. Sokka doesn’t regulate the same way. 

Zuko falls into rhythm, each inhale stirring his chi at his core, and each exhale sending it to his extremities. He closes his eyes. Unconsciousness finds him peacefully, each breath drawing him in. He lays very still – he's always slept like a corpse unless fevered. When Sokka thinks he’s fallen asleep, he crawls over to lay beside him. Sokka is careful in his movements. He presses his back into the tree trunk to leave an inch between their torsos, but their legs tangle tightly.  _ Because I’m warm _ , Zuko tells himself. Ages later, when Zuko truly is asleep, Sokka places one flat hand to the center of Zuko’s chest.

He dreams but nothing is clear, yet something within them wakes him like a fist. He opens his eyes, but the weight of another body holds him down. It takes a moment too long to remember. It’s only Sokka, on top of him like that, clinging to him like that – hard against his thigh like that. He’s dead asleep and snoring into Zuko’s bicep. 

It’s fine, it’s normal, go back to sleep, he chants to himself. But this isn’t normal for him – and how could it be normal for Sokka when he’s the only guy his age left in his tribe? Zuko fidgets, but that just makes him feel it more. If he lays very still maybe it will go away. All the focus he puts into laying still draws a sweat to his skin. Now he’s sweaty, wide-awake, and can’t move. 

Sokka sleeps like the dead, his snores light through his nose. Zuko turns his head away and wipes the sweat off his brow with his blanket. He kicks it to his ankles – no need for it when he’s already causing global warming. Sokka might want it, but he’s not shivering anymore. He’s cold to the touch but that could just be their temperature difference. For Zuko, it’s like breathing fresh air. Sokka’s hand presses into the flat of Zuko’s stomach, and it’s cool and nice, and he needs to stop thinking like that.

It’s already too late – mere inches below Sokka’s hand lies his own hardness. Sokka stirs, and before he can turn onto his back, his hand brushes over Zuko. They're both wide awake.

Sokka looks at him alarmed. There’s no sleepiness in his eyes, only questions, and something else he’s afraid to identify. Zuko doesn’t have any answers. 

“It’s normal,” Sokka says, peeling away from Zuko. God, he’s so sweaty. 

“It’s not,” Zuko says, scrambling to sit up. “And - how would you know what’s normal! You said it yourself – you’re the only guy your age in your tribe.”

“Oh yeah, I bet you sleep  with loads of guys.”

“I resent that,” Zuko growls.

“I resent you!” Sokka punctuates with an accusatory finger dead  centre in Zuko’s chest. It feels like a laser, cutting through him.

He huffs, lungs heaving. He swats Sokka’s hand away with more force than necessary, holds it hard into the dirt. “You’re insufferable!”

“Take a look in the mirror,” Sokka says. Before Zuko can form his rebuttal, Sokka catches him in a firm lip-lock. It’s not a kiss. He knows what a kiss is, and this is anything but. It’s a whole different mouth-feel from Mei. Sokka’s lips are thick, and they push against Zuko’s. Sokka pulls away, his pleased countenance a temptation. (A temptation to show him a real kiss, or whatever  _ that _ was again -- anything, he’ll take anything Sokka’s willing to give).

He freezes. He stands, carefully folds up his pack without a word, and leaves.

* * *

“Hey,” Sokka says. He kicks the dirt into the air at Zuko’s hip. He doesn’t look up. “ Wanna spar?” 

He sits down beside him, and their hips touch. Zuko moves away.

“I can practically feel my joints tightening up as we speak,” He tries again. “ So, I think we should -”

“Do you really think that’s a good idea,” His voice is low. He worries if his voice has any inflection, it will betray what he’s really feeling.

“Yeah, I mean, I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t,” Sokka says slowly. 

“And how long did you actually think about it?” Zuko says, harsh. “Huh? Do you have a plan? A tactic? Or are you just sparring for the sake of sparring.”

Sokka frowns. “Something tells me you and I are talking about two different things.”

“You think?” He stands up, doesn’t bother to brush the dirt off. He stalks off, but Sokka just follows. He can’t go anywhere solitary because all the places he wants to go are places they go together. He settles for the rock terrace. It’s secluded with trees, and the wind doesn’t reach this far inland. He sits in a shaded patch.

He gets a few minutes alone with his thoughts before that familiar rustling sounds again.

“Okay, so I’ve thought about it, and I do have a plan. I’m the plans-guy. It’s _ my _ thing.” Sokka sits cross-legged in front of Zuko. He feels trapped; his hip bones are glued to the rock face behind him. Sokka picks a stick off the ground and waves it wildly.

“You know the whole unstoppable force, immovable object thing, right?” Sokka draws a diagram in the stone between them, the stick carving light marks into the scorched ground. Zuko more-than-knows the idiom – it's one of Iroh’s favourites. But Sokka takes his silence as encouragement. “ A merchant was selling a spear and a shield. When asked how good his spear was, he said, ‘good enough to pierce any shield.’ Then, when asked how good his shield was, he said ‘it could defend all spear attacks.’ Another person asked him what would happen if he were strike his shield with his sword, and he couldn’t answer.”

Sokka draws a line and a circle. Then a circle with a line through it. Zuko touches the figures and they smudge beneath his fingertips. He looks away and holds his mouth tight.

“I used to be a spearman,” Sokka says, and it sits heavy in Zuko’s chest. 

“That may be true,” Zuko says slowly. He’s worried he’ll mess up the words. “But I’ve never had to use a shield.”

Sokka sets the stick aside, and Zuko follows it with his eyes as it rolls away. It tumbles away, rattling against the bumpy terrain as it goes, goes, goes.

“I can teach you,” says Sokka. It rolls off the cliff. 

Sokka reaches for his hand, and their pinkies brush. He leans in, and Zuko feels every heartbeat fluttering in his neck. Their mouths come together soft, but the kiss is firm. It’s a quiet thing. They hold together, breathing the same air. It’s unlike any kiss he’s known. 

A branch cracking breaks them apart. Zuko wipes his mouth. Sokka sits back on his haunches, nearly falling from his haste. 

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,”  Toph says. “And now dinner’s  gonna be cold because I had to search the whole fucking temple for you.” She shuffles her feet. “Am I interrupting something.”

“Nope, we were just talking,” Sokka says quickly. 

Zuko says, “About tactics.”

“And plans!”

“Okay, weirdos,”  Toph walks off. They follow her back to camp, each stride in sync with the other. On a few, special steps, the backs of their hands brush. Zuko almost loses his appetite completely. His stomach is a pit of energy. It feels like his days wandering the earth kingdom, stomach three-days empty. He burns. He’s hungry and he burns with it.

He has a feeling food won’t help this kind of hunger.

Zuko eats his dinner and keeps it down. He stokes the fire and waits for the sun to go down over the cliff. When the sky grows purple, and everyone turns in for the night, Sokka stays behind.

“I’m  gonna collect some firewood for tomorrow,” he tells  Katara . 

She sighs, “Just don’t stay up too late. The less sleep you get the more annoying you are.” She looks over her shoulder, at Zuko and his flickering fire. “You too,” she says.

He looks up, and she stares right back. 

“Get some sleep,” She tells him. 

“I will,” he says.

They walk together in silence. Sokka bends over every few steps to snap branches. He hands them to Zuko to carry, and he holds them like it’s a treasure he’s been given. They walk in a circle back to camp, and Zuko lays the wood against the rock face. Even though it’s already dried out. Sokka stares at him.

“What are you looking at,” Zuko says.

“You.”

Zuko’s knees shake. He needs to be moving

“Do you  wanna run?” Sokka offers. He must see the shift in Zuko’s weight. 

“No,” he says against his better judgement.

Sokka throws out, “Do you  wanna swim?” He’s got that nervous smile on his face.

“No.” Zuko says. It takes a moment to order his words the way he wants them, and even then, he’s not sure they come out right. “I want things I shouldn’t want.”

Sokka put his hand on Zuko’s shoulder. It’s a friendly gesture, but it feels charged. He turns his head, rests his chin on his hand.

“And if I want them to?” Sokka says. His hand finds Zuko’s other shoulder, and his forehead presses between them. They breathe together, and it feels like meditation. Zuko knows what he’s doing before it happens, his knees bracing as Sokka jumps onto his back. Zuko’s hands cup the back of Sokka’s knees. His hair is thinner there, his skin softer. 

Zuko carries him deep into the paths. Sokka tucks his head into Zuko’s neck to avoid the low-hanging branches. He mouths into the skin there. Zuko doesn’t know if it’s words or a kiss but his knees buckle regardless. When they reach the spring, Zuko wades in, hip deep. They’re fully clothed. Sokka slips off his back, but still holds close. Zuko turns to face him. Because of the spring’s up-slant, Sokka is taller. He reaches down to pull at Zuko’s robe. It floats around his waist in the water, and he unties the knot at his front. It floats away. He fingers the cloth at Sokka’s throat, undoes the button. It floats away, too.

They look at each other, bare chested. 

Sokka’s hands find the back of his neck. Zuko cups the base of his ribs. 

“Sokka,” Zuko whispers, and his name soars into the good night. Sokka answers with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you liked in the comments :)   
> Find me on Tumblr @cardiovascular-tension


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